Halfway between here and there
by HelveticaBrown
Summary: In the aftermath of her sacrifice, Emma struggles to reconcile the duality of her nature, to resist the inexorable pull towards total darkness, to keep those she loves safe from herself. Post season 4 finale.
1. Chapter 1

There is a strange duality inside her. On the one hand, she is still Emma Swan, with the sum of Emma Swan's experiences. She still likes grilled cheese, cocoa with cinnamon and wearing leather jackets with too-tight jeans. She still loves her son like breathing, and loves his other mother with an ardour that had taken her by surprise when she realised it, and still does. She still has nightmares that everyone she cares about will leave her, just like they always have.

On the other hand, there is a dark and ancient chorus of voices whispering to her. _You need never fear again. You are strength and power and all will bow before you._ She feels their experiences intimately – memories of violence, bloodshed, power – and over time, the distinction between their experiences and hers is becoming more and more blurred. They whisper such seductive things – _you can protect your loves, obliterate any who would stand against them, any who would harm them_ – and she wonders how long she can resist them, how long it will be before the voices stop being _other_ and start being _self._

She had fled Storybrooke in the immediate aftermath, the war of light and dark magic within her threatening to spill out and destroy everything and everyone around her, like the detonation of an atomic bomb. The power had been such that she'd been able to punch through the fabric between worlds, and she'd found a space, a void, where there was nothing, no one she could hurt. She'd stayed there for a time, perhaps minutes, perhaps aeons, until the raging, roiling, energy in her had quieted a little. It still crackled just beneath her skin though, like a thousand tiny electrical storms, the potential for destruction infinite, boundless.

She would have stayed there longer, forever if she could. But she'd felt the pull of the dagger, the sound of her name echoing across the vastness of space and time, and although she'd tried to resist, there was a twisting, tearing, rending sensation, and suddenly she was standing in Storybrooke once more, her mother holding the dagger up to the sun.

Snow's arms are around her, and she's crying, great gasping, gulping sobs that Emma can feel with her whole body. "Emma, Emma. Thank god you're safe." Emma can feel Snow's tears dripping onto her shoulder, soaking her shirt, and there's a queer urge welling up in her to lick them off her face before they fall, _taste_ her pain, swallow it up inside her. The voices are whispering to her again and she tries push them away. _She's hurt you before. She'll hurt you again, hurt others. Don't let her hurt anyone again._

There are images flashing behind her eyes, scrambled, almost too quick to comprehend: _Snow's heart in her hands, pulverised into dust; Snow with her head at a curious, unnatural angle and flat, lifeless eyes; Snow with eyes and tongue bulging out and Emma's hands wrapped around her throat._ Emma stands there like marble, her hands clenched at her sides, as her mother continues to wail.

Eventually Snow steps back and looks at her and Emma can see her flinch a little at what she sees. She hides it well, but not well enough; with her new eyes, Emma can see the energy transfer in a collision of atoms half a universe away. Reading the face of a woman who has never been good at keeping secrets is child's play.

Snow is calmer now, as she speaks. "Why, Emma? Why would you do that? You saved us all, but why would you sacrifice yourself that way?"

Emma is silent, but inside there is a voice that this time she recognises as her own. _Not for you. For her. Everything for her._

Snow carries the dagger at all times, and Emma feels it as a leash, both welcome and chafing. Under Snow's control, her hands are still clean, but her soul is still being tarnished gradually with generations of destruction.

At first, Snow tries to insist that she live in the town, with them, but Emma looks at her with dead eyes, and watches as Snow shivers. "I could end everyone in this town with a thought," she says, and Snow agrees to let her live in the forest, commands her, in the end. And so, Emma is tied to a cabin in the forest, not allowed to take more than a hundred steps from its door, waiting until they find a way to bring her back to herself.

Killian comes to see her, and he is like a shattered mirror, all she can see in him is herself, distorted and strange, from a thousand different angles. She can smell him before he even walks into the room, his body reeking of the sour smell of rum and desperation.

He moans and sobs and swears, and she watches as the knuckles of his one good hand become swollen and bloody and mangled as he punches the wall again and again and again.

"Swan, why'd you do it?"

She sighs, and a moment of gentle affection for him unaccountably wells up, before quickly being quashed again. "I couldn't not do it." The voices whisper again. _He's a fool. Unworthy of you. Crush him for his insolence, his presumptuousness._

He looks at her with such anguish, his pretty blue eyes bloodshot and wounded. "You made me want to be a better man, made me want to turn my back on darkness. But I'm not enough for you, am I, never was."

She remembers telling him she loved him. She'd lied, a kindness to make him feel better, but looking at him now, she thinks that it wasn't a kindness at all.

"Did you ever love me, Emma?"

Her eyes are hard and her voice is harder. "No."

He leaves Storybrooke that night and she's glad, because even though she never loved him the way that he loves her, she still cares enough to be relieved that he won't be in her line of fire anymore.

She refuses to see Henry, terrified of what she might see in his eyes, unsure whether hope or fear would be more devastating. Snow tries to keep him away, but Henry, sweet Henry, is as determined and resourceful as ever.

She feels him approaching, and she hides, folding light and shadow around her until she is no longer visible to his mortal eyes. He stands there, searching, calling for her. "I know you're here, where are you?"

Seeing him is like a small tendril of sunlight sneaking through the clouds in the depths of winter, and she allows herself to enjoy it for a moment. She ignores his calls, screwing her eyes shut and clenching the muscles in her jaw. The urge to hold him, to ruffle his hair is almost overwhelming, but she knows it's not safe, _she's_ not safe.

And then he pulls the dagger out, and Emma knows a moment of horror, before she's torn from the shadows.

"Emma Swan. Dark One, I summon thee."

She groans, "Henry, what have you done?"

He's crying, and Emma reaches out and traces the path of a tear down his face, the face that is not quite that of a boy and not yet that of a man. _He shouldn't have to endure this._ The voices are there again. _You can keep him safe. So many have hurt him. Lay waste to them all._

"I need you. _Mom_ needs you. She's not been the same since you did this. She's broken." He looks at her with hope in his eyes. "I need you to put her back together again. Come _home_."

Emma can feel her breath coming quickly, and it wells up in her throat until she's screaming. She can feel the magic pulsating under her skin, feel the rage building, molten metal burning through bone and muscle and skin.

Henry is cowering in front of her, and this is what brings her back to herself. She looks around, and realises that the cabin is no longer there, and nor are any of the trees for at least fifty yards. There's only destruction. And for the first time since she'd taken on the darkness, she feels moisture in her eyes, and a solitary tear tracks down her face.

 _It was all for her, for nothing. Regina._


	2. Chapter 2

_Regina_. Emma has deliberately avoided asking about Regina, and Snow hasn't volunteered any information. Until now, she has assumed that Regina is okay. But the thought that Regina is hurting, broken, makes her stomach churn and the magic threatens to overwhelm her again.

She searches for something to anchor her, a way to achieve stillness that she was never quite able to grasp, even before the dark entered her. She closes her eyes and counts to ten and reminds herself that she would do anything to protect the boy in front of her. Reminds herself that right now she is the thing that he most needs to be protected from. It hurts, but it's enough to give her some clarity, keep the emotion and the magic and the voices at bay.

Henry picks himself up and stands tall in front of her, his gaze firm. He's almost tall enough to look her straight in the eye now. He's outwardly calm, surprisingly so, although she can see the slightest hint of a tremor in the hand clutching the dagger and smell the acrid stench of fear beginning to seep from his pores. Her beautiful, brave son. _I'm proud of him._ There's the flicker of a smile on her face; it's brief, but it's the first in what seems like an eternity. She can feel the dark quiet for a moment, but she's not sure how long it will last.

"Henry, you need to get away from me."

"I'm not leaving you, Mom."

The sense of déjà vu is overwhelming. They've been through this exact dance before, only this time, the stakes are so much higher.

Emma sits down and hugs her knees. "Kid, I could have hurt you just then. It's not safe for you to be near me right now."

Henry shakes his head. "No. I _know_ you won't hurt me. And even if I thought you might, I have the dagger."

God, he's stubborn. She knows she shouldn't be surprised that between herself and Regina he's grown up to be so stubborn, so single-minded.

"Mom, I need you to help me to fix her."

"What makes you think I can do anything?"

"I've tried and Robin has tried, but she won't talk to either of us." He looks distraught. "She's hurting so bad, Mom, and I don't know how to help her. But you're the Saviour. It's what you do." He still believes in her, still sees her as a hero despite everything.

She sighs. "Henry, you can't just fix a person like you would a broken-down car, you can't just force them to be better. You can help them, but in the end they've got to choose to heal themselves. And right now, kid, I don't even know how to help myself."

"She cares about you and I know that you care about her. I know that you can get through to her."

"Henry…"

"I have the dagger. I could force you."

His voice cracks as he says it and the sound of it pierces Emma's heart a little. _He's still a child, but he's had to endure so much, grow up too fast. He shouldn't have to make these decisions._

Emma sighs. "I'll come with you."

He relaxes minutely, and Emma holds out a hand for him to help her up off the ground.

"Thanks." She crosses her arms. "So, do I even want to know how you got your hands on the dagger?"

Henry shrugs. "Grandma's always been kind of an easy mark. I stole her credit card when I was ten, and this wasn't really that much harder."

"Yeah?" Emma is a little bit impressed, in spite of herself, although she's also going to be having a serious chat with Snow later. "Just so you know, kid, you are so grounded until you're 35."

"Seriously, Mom?"

The hint of a whine in his voice makes her smile, and she feels almost normal for a moment. "Seriously. And you're going to have to give that dagger back."

"Don't you trust me?"

"I do. Always. But you shouldn't have to bear the burden of this. You shouldn't have to take responsibility for keeping me from hurting people."

Emma waves a hand, and suddenly they're standing on the doorstep at 108 Mifflin St.

Robin answers the door. He looks at her with dull, tired eyes, and his voice is filled with resignation. "You. What do you want?"

She's never particularly liked him, always thought that Regina could do better. _Like me. I'm not perfect, but neither is he._ He's handsome enough, but his much-vaunted sense of honour has never really seemed to live up to its billing and for a so-called soulmate, he's always been a little too quick to let Regina go. _Soulmates. That should have been us. We're two sides of the same coin._ Destiny is a fucking awful stand-up comedian, and it feels like all too often, she and Regina have taken turns being the punchline in a seriously shitty joke.

The darkness senses an opportunity, a way in through her jealousy, and the voices are suddenly clamouring again, forming a cacophony, a shrieking discordant choir. _He stands in your way. He is not worthy of her. Claim what is yours. Kill him. Kill him. KILL HIM!_

Emma bites her lip hard and presses her nails so deep into her palms that they draw blood. The shock of the pain and the coppery tang of blood on her tongue are almost enough to cut through the violence threatening to spill over, but not quite. Before she knows it, she's holding him a foot off the ground, slamming him against one of the pillars on the porch, and the voices are screaming at her. _He is not worthy to gaze upon her. Pluck his eyes from their sockets. Cut off the hands that have sullied her flesh. Tear out his throat._

She plunges her hand into his chest, and his heart is in her hand, pure and bright and pulsating. It's lighter than she expected, warm and vital and oh so fragile. Her fingers flex, and Robin is suddenly gasping, clawing at her hand, at his own throat. _So fragile, so easy to crush._ She knows exactly how much pressure she would need to exert to make his heart disintegrate and pour through her fingers, just so many motes of dust. _Just a little bit more…_

 _Regina wouldn't want this._ Her hand relaxes a moment before Henry screams, commands her to stop. She puts Robin down gently, pressing his heart back where it belongs.

"I need to talk to Regina, so you need to stay away for a little while." She stares at him for a moment, testing herself, and the temptation is still there to tear him apart. "I don't like you very much, and that's dangerous. For you, for me, for everyone."

"And why should I just stand aside and let you in?"

"Because if I choose to go through you, there's no way you could stop me." She sighs. "I'm just here to talk, Robin. Nothing more."

Robin is breathing heavily and Emma can see the muscles in his jaw working. He searches her eyes, and Emma's not sure what it is that he sees. He steps in and knots her shirt up in his fist. "Don't you dare hurt her. Dark One or not, I will hunt you down if you do."

She feels a certain grudging respect for him in that moment. He's willing to stand against a power far greater than he could even contemplate for Regina. She's been there, done that and knows how it feels.

She watches him walk away. _So close. I came so close to destroying everything. Regina would never have forgiven me._ She takes a moment to compose herself before she looks over at Henry. He's clutching the dagger, white-knuckled, and there's a look that she thinks might be terror in his eyes. She can hear his heart beating, fast and shallow, like a rabbit facing down a wolf.

She frowns. "I'm sorry you had to see that, kid. Still think this is a good idea?"

He swallows audibly, and she hears the quaver in his voice. "You could have killed him. You could have, but you stopped. I saw it. I'm right, aren't I?"

She leans against the pillar that she'd held Robin against mere moments ago. "I did. This time, I stopped, but I don't know how much longer I'll be able to hold on for."

He steps closer to her, and suddenly he's holding her. He whispers, "I know you can fight this. I believe in you."

She slides her arms around him, and for a moment, the world is back on its axis.


	3. Chapter 3

They stay there like that for a moment, and Emma is not sure which of them is most in need of comfort. Henry's heart is still beating so fast, but his arms are strong and steady around her and his goodness, his belief, both hurts her and heals her. She wishes she could freeze time, stop the world from turning any further, because for all that this is the aftermath of a moment of terror, she worries that this is the closest thing to perfection she will ever experience again. The scary thing is, she thinks that maybe she could stop the earth in its tracks, such is the extent of the dark power mixed with her own.

She clings to Henry for as long as she can, delaying. She's afraid of what she'll find inside 108 Mifflin, afraid to face Regina, afraid to let her see what she's become. Afraid of what she'll do when she sees Regina, what she'll say. Afraid that she has revealed too much of herself and that Regina will recognise the intent behind her actions. Afraid of her response.

It sounds so crazy in her head, even now, when she quite possibly is actually legitimately crazy. She loves Regina. Regina, who has spent half a lifetime trying to destroy her family. Regina, whose curse had doomed her to growing up alone, doomed her to a loveless existence. Regina, who she'd recognised as a kindred spirit almost from the start. Regina, whose redemption is a chance to break the cycle.

She can't quite pin down exactly when she started to feel this way about her, but she thinks the feeling was there long before she could put a name to it. Maybe it was at the border of the town as she prepared to drive away with Henry, Regina's gift and her sacrifice fresh in her mind. Maybe it was in the gnawing sense of discontent and unaccountable loss she'd felt during those months in New York, unable to pinpoint what was wrong, what she was missing. Maybe it was well before all of that; certainly there'd always been a frisson of attraction between the two of them. Even when they'd been at each other's throats, they had somehow felt like a circuit completing itself.

Her nerves are strung tight, too tight, and every thought of Regina makes her feel like she's going to snap. She needs something to anchor herself in the past, in one of those all too brief moments when they were friends, just Emma and Regina, and everything was okay.

"I'll be back in a minute, kid."

He starts to protest, but she shakes her head. "I promise I'm coming back. I just need to do something quickly."

She reappears a few minutes later with a couple of paper bags.

"I'm ready now."

Henry follows her inside, and Emma heads unerringly towards Regina's study. She'd always been sensitive to Regina's magic, since that moment facing the wraith when she'd been the spark igniting Regina's power. And now, with her senses so expanded, Regina is like a beacon burning both dark and bright, drawing her in.

As they reach the door, she turns to Henry and says, "Kid, I need to talk to your mother in private. Give her the dagger, and then go wait outside."

Emma opens the door and the room is dark, the curtains drawn. She lingers in the doorway as Henry hands the dagger to his mother. Even in the darkness, she can see that Regina is being consumed, hollowed out. She can see skin stretched tight across cheekbones, the dark, sunken eyes. Can see the way her blouse hangs, loose where it should be filled. Regina has always been small, but she's never actually looked it. Her presence has always been so great, so commanding, but now, now she just seems fragile, like she could break with the slightest impact.

She can hear the question in her voice. "Henry?"

Emma steps into the room as Henry leaves. "Hey Regina. Thought you might be hungry." Emma puts a container of salad in front of Regina, who is just staring at her, wordlessly. She takes a seat across from her and cracks open the two root beers, using the most mundane magic she knows to try and create some semblance of normality. It's not working, but at least the voices have dimmed to a quiet hum, not knowing quite what angle to exploit, which crack in her soul will yield the greatest opportunity.

After a while, Regina breaks her silence. "I wish you hadn't done that."

Emma knows she's not talking about kale salad, but she smiles wryly, trying to find a way to neutralise the heavy, charged atmosphere that surrounds them. "I've got grilled cheese if you'd prefer that instead."

Regina makes an exasperated sound, and it warms Emma a little, because maybe, just maybe there is the faintest glimmer of hope that they'll both be okay.

There's a ghost of a smile that's gone almost before it began, and Regina regards her with sad, serious eyes again. "Emma, I wish you hadn't done that."

She can't deflect, can't avoid this any longer. "I made you a promise. No matter what, I intend to keep it."

Regina closes her eyes. "The price was too high. You made that promise not knowing what it would entail and I would never have let you make it if either of us had known."

Emma is quiet for a moment, wondering what kind of miracle she needs to perform to do what the kid's asked her to do. "Henry says you're not happy."

Regina grimaces. "How could I be? How could I enjoy a happy ending bought by someone else's suffering?" She pauses and her brow crinkles and her eyes are suspiciously bright. "How could I be happy when someone I care about… when a friend is suffering in my place?"

"It's not so bad." That's a lie, but she tries to fill her words with conviction, tries not to let Regina understand the cost.

"Emma, I may not have your superpower, but I know you're lying right now."

"It was worth it." And it was, _is_ worth it. She knows that she would do it again without hesitation.

"I'm grateful for what you did, and I feel guilty that I can even think that way. I know how much you must be hurting."

Regina's hand shakes as she runs it through her hair, and Emma can sense that she is losing her battle with control. Finally, a single tear tracks its way down Regina's face and Emma is transfixed. A second readies itself to follow the same path and Emma starts to reach out to catch it, desperate to smooth it away. She stops herself; it's not her place to offer that kind of comfort. They don't have that kind of relationship.

"Before you intervened, the dark was going to swallow me whole. It found so much within me to anchor itself to." Her voice is soft, bleak. "I've hurt so many, killed with barely a second thought. It forced me to relive every moment. And now, I can't even close my eyes without seeing their faces."

Emma clenches her fists. She'd burn the whole world to the ground and salt the earth if it meant that Regina could be happy. _But that wouldn't make her happy. Never has before._ She has so much power at her fingertips, but none of it is enough to win this battle. She knows how to fight with muscle and magic, but doesn't know how to fight the formless monsters that sleep inside.

"Regina, you're not that person anymore."

Regina shakes her head. "No, but she is still part of me. I can never truly be at peace with what I've done, but I'd reached a place where I was comfortable that going forward I could live a life that I could be proud of, that Henry could be proud of. But right now, all I can think about is how much pain I've caused. And if that's what I'm feeling after a few moments in its grasp, how must you be feeling trying to contain so much darkness?"

Emma tries to summon another lie, but the way Regina is looking at her, she knows it's futile. They've been through too much together and Regina sees her soul in the same way that she knows hers.

"I feel like I'm walking an endless tightrope over a dark, bottomless pit. One misstep and it will all be over." It's worse than that. The dark is actively reaching up, trying to pull her down to meet it.

"I'm so sorry, Emma." Regina leans forward, and her hand is warm on Emma's knee through denim as tight as a second skin. Emma can count on one hand the number of times Regina has touched her and as always, it's all too brief. Regina withdraws her hand, but Emma can still feel it, branded on her skin.

"I've scoured every book, used every artefact I have at my disposal trying to find a way to free you from this. I keep coming up empty." Her voice cracks as she speaks. "I want to help you."

Emma can see the frustration, the helplessness in Regina's eyes. "You can help me. Keep the dagger safe."

"Emma…"

She interrupts Regina. "This is important. I need you to take the dagger. As long as I'm the Dark One, there will be people who try to use its power, use me. And I can take care of myself, but they'll try to use what I love most against me." She looks at Regina and wonders if she's given herself away. "If you have the dagger, you can make sure that Henry is safe." _A half-truth. Good enough._

"Surely it would be better to return it to Snow."

Emma laughs humourlessly. "Come on, Regina. Neither of us believes that my mother is the right person to trust with power like this. She doesn't exactly have the best track record."

"She doesn't, but neither do I."

The voices have started to swirl in the back of her mind again, whispering of opportunity. Whispering of freedom. She could just reach out and take the dagger from where it rests on Regina's lap. _Take it, be your own master. She can't stop you, won't stop you._ Emma pushes that thought away, because right now, the thought of ruling her own destiny is entirely too seductive. Because she knows that even with the dagger in her hand, she'd still be fighting herself.

"No. But you understand the cost of using power like this better than anyone." This time, she is completely honest, completely open. She leans over and clasps Regina's hand in her own for a moment before wrapping Regina's hand around the hilt of the dagger. Their faces are inches apart and her eyes are fixed on Regina's. "I trust you."

There's a look slowly dawning in Regina's eyes, and it's _this_ that makes it all worth it. The way that Regina looks at her with the beginnings of what might be hope; this is what it's all about.

"Emma…" Her voice is barely more than a whisper.

Emma smiles. "I trust you to keep him safe. I trust you to keep _me_ safe."

She sends herself back to the forest before she can betray herself by closing the gap between them.


	4. Chapter 4

The cabin is in pieces barely larger than matchsticks, and Emma feels queasy at the reminder of how close she had been to hurting Henry. She finds a few bits and pieces that were not destroyed, some food, some blankets, enough to make her night slightly more comfortable. She could use magic to create something resembling the cabin she had levelled, but at this juncture, she doesn't really see the point. The presence of four walls and a roof would make very little difference to her comfort with the ache of her mind so overwhelming. And it certainly wouldn't be the first time she'd slept rough, not that sleep was likely to be a feature of her evening.

Sleep has been hard to come by since her transformation, but she finds that she hardly needs it anymore. Most of the time she's grateful for that, because when she does sleep, her dreams are sickeningly vivid. It's like the deepest, ugliest recesses of her subconscious mind are free to dance with the dark voices that are struggling for control of her. And in those moments between dusk and dawn, when will is subjugated by dream, the darkness wins, for a little while at least.

There is knowledge that she shouldn't have, gradually becoming spliced in with her own until she can't tell where her own experiences end and the Dark One's begin. She knows exactly how much force she needs to exert to snap someone's neck with her bare hands, and how long it will take before their life will slip away. She knows the sensation of driving her thumbs into eye sockets, of driving a knife into flesh. She knows the stench of fear and shit and piss and blood as her victims die and all their muscles relax. She knows endless variations on how to kill with her bare hands, with weapons, with magic, how to kill quickly and how to extract maximum suffering.

In her dreams, she has killed over and over. With each day that passes, the body count grows larger, and sometimes when she closes her eyes, she can see them, flashbacks to crimes she hasn't committed. _Hasn't committed yet._ She is a mass murderer several times over, and her victims are piling up in her mind like so many broken dolls. Every slight, every wayward look, every misdeed punished, returned with interest, repaid with blood and pain and torment. Sometimes they are strangers, long dead, killed in previous lifetimes. And sometimes they wear the faces of people she knows, and she wonders if these are nightmares, or prophecies.

The one death she does own torments her still, because it's proof that there is something inside her for the darkness to anchor itself to. She remembers that momentary change in the expression on Cruella's face the instant before she toppled over the cliff. There was surprise there, and recognition too, like Emma's actions were in some way familiar. She'd seen something similar in Lily's eyes as she stood over her and it makes her think that maybe the Dark One's power is merely a key that fits a lock that was already there and that it's simply freeing something that she's barely kept contained.

She lies on the forest floor, looking up at the stars, listening to the crackle of the fire and the whisper of a breeze through the canopy, wishing that there was a way out of this. It's only a matter of time before she does something she can't come back from and she's terrified that it won't be the dark power forcing her hand. And then the subtle sounds of the forest at night are drowned out by the rising voices calling to her. _Surrender. Give in. Find peace. There will be no more pain for you, no suffering, only the cool embrace of dark._

Just when she fears she's going to drown in their song, she feels the strange, wrenching sense of dislocation that means she's being summoned. And then she's standing in a dark room. She starts to say something as she looks around for Regina, and she readies herself for danger, because what other reason could there be for summoning her in the middle of the night. She stops mid-sentence when she realises that the room she's in is Regina's bedroom and that Regina is very much asleep in the bed at the centre of the room.

Emma tries to leave, but the power of the dagger is holding her in place, something in Regina's slumbering mind keeping it active. She hovers over the bed for a moment, wracked by indecision over whether or not to wake her. While she is there, she can't help but notice the way that Regina clings to her pillow and the way that even in sleep, there is a tiny frown marring that perfect forehead. She decides not to wake her. She decides to allow Regina to sleep undisturbed and to allow herself to enjoy this tiny moment of proximity, this unintended intimacy. She slides to the floor and waits for Regina to release her.

She knows that what she's doing is wrong, but she can't bring herself to actively end it. She knows that this vulnerability isn't hers to witness, that the soft, sighing breaths coming from the bed are not hers to hear. The mumbled word that may or may not have been her name certainly isn't meant for her ears. The moment she feels Regina's hold on her relax, she sends herself back to the forest.

* * *

As she had expected, her mother is not happy with her decision to entrust the dagger to Regina. Snow paces the clearing, remonstrating with her, while Emma stands watching, impassively. Emma wonders how Snow feels about her efforts to keep her free of darkness being repaid with darkness a thousand-fold times greater. Darkness that she had chosen.

"Emma, why can't you see that this is a mistake?"

Emma can't help but feel a certain amount of relief that Henry took the dagger, and in doing so, provided a justification for keeping it away from Snow. "You had your shot, and you couldn't even keep the dagger safe from a 14-year-old boy." There really isn't anything that Snow can say to that.

"Emma…" Her voice is pleading and Emma thinks that once she might have been moved by it, but not anymore.

Snow reaches out a hand to touch her, but Emma intercepts it before it can reach its destination. She's always been uncomfortable receiving affection from Snow, and right now the thought of being touched by her sets Emma's skin crawling. Emma feels bones grinding beneath her grip, hears Snow's cry of pain and that's enough, just enough to break the spell. But there had been a flicker of pleasure in causing Snow pain that she can't quite suppress, at the tiny recompense for the decades of suffering that that Snow had caused her through selfishness masquerading as selflessness.

There are some days when she can hardly look at her, this stranger who looks and sounds like Mary Margaret, the first friend she'd had in years, but is unmistakeably someone else. She doesn't know what to call her either. The Mary Margaret she'd known is dead, consumed by the self-righteous force of nature that is Snow White. She's called her Mom a few times and watched her light up, radiantly happy, but most of the time, the word feels wrong in her mouth. Because, no matter what, nothing can quite erase the fact that her mother had chosen to offer her up as a human sacrifice to end a war that had started long before Emma had been born.

"You're not the right person to carry it," Emma says.

"But you trust Regina with it?" There's a note of incredulity creeping into Snow's voice and the anger that had been there at the start of the conversation is returning, visible in the sudden stiffness in her spine.

"She understands the price of darkness better than anyone." Unspoken is the corollary that Snow doesn't, that her self-righteousness, her conviction, has always shielded her from understanding the true cost of her actions. "And I need to make sure that Henry is safe. If Regina has the dagger, she has the best shot at that." This is the truth, but it's also a small kindness that she offers Snow, a way of softening the impact.

Emma's words have the intended effect, because Snow deflates, the rising anger departing just as swiftly. Snow's shoulders slump a little, and the pain of her hand that had been lost in her anger is suddenly etched all over her face and in the way that she gingerly nurses her wrist.

"I'll respect your choice." With that, Snow's focus shifts, and she finally seems to notice the destruction surrounding her. "What happened to the cabin, Emma?"

* * *

Her father has never been much more than a handsome face and a strong, sure sword-arm, willing to be led by Snow. He surprises her when he comes to see her alone and clearly without Snow's knowledge. He surprises her more when he holds out a wriggling, squirming mass that proves to be a puppy.

"You shouldn't be alone out here all the time. It's not good for you," David says.

"I don't think you get to decide what's good for me. You gave up any right to that a long time ago." She knows she's hit the target. He tries to hide it, but he flinches at her words.

"You're right. I don't get to decide, but it doesn't mean I'll ever stop caring." He holds the puppy out again. "She really needs a home and I thought maybe you could be the one to give it to her."

It's the kind of gesture that a father might make to console his 10-year-old daughter over a small hurt, but Emma is long past that stage. Her dreams of mothers and fathers and puppies were extinguished long ago, and now she's a grown woman caught between worlds, trapped by expectations, fumbling her way through a performance that she never rehearsed for. Mother, daughter, hero. And now, when she's fighting for her very sense of self, she doesn't know what to cling to, doesn't know which version of her is real. And David is standing there with soft wounded eyes, trying to be the father she needs without understanding what she needs at all.

"What am I going to do with a dog?" Emma gestures around the clearing, to the small trailer that Snow had insisted she take. But David looks so earnest, so wounded, that she sighs and takes the puppy from him.

He lingers for a while, chatting about harmless, innocuous, small things, like Leroy's latest exploits and how to care for a puppy and what the weather has been like. He doesn't mention the bruising on Snow's hand, which she's sure he would have seen. And although not even the most charitable observer would mistake him for a genius, Emma knows that he's not enough of a fool to think that it was anything other than what it appeared to be. Even if Snow lied to him (and Emma is almost certain that she would have).

She's lulled by the banality of the conversation, but then he surprises her by changing topics and she remembers that sometimes, very occasionally, her father has a surprising degree of insight into what makes people tick.

"Have you told her?"

Emma frowns, half-heartedly fending off the puppy who is currently attacking one of her sleeves. "Have I told who what?"

"Regina. Have you told her that you're in love with her?"

She tries to argue with him, but he has a knowing look on his face. She falls silent.

"Love makes us do stupid, crazy things." He smiles self-deprecatingly. "I've done my fair share of them over the years, so I think I'm uniquely qualified to recognise when someone else is gripped by that particular brand of insanity."

Emma shrugs, no longer denying the charge, and he continues. "Most people buy flowers or write cheesy love poems, but throwing ourselves headlong into unspeakable danger… It's kind of a Charming trademark." He grins at her, finding humour in the strangest things. "You're a regular chip off the old block."

"What does it matter, anyway? I'm not a part of her story, at least not in that way." And she can't be, especially now. "She has a soulmate, as ordained by a fairy and some fucking pixie dust. And I've learned all too well that no one from your land messes with destiny."

"Believe me, it matters." He puts a hand on her shoulder, and she accepts the touch for a moment before stepping back out of his reach.

He smiles at her, the light catching his hair and his eyes just so, and he's the picture of a fairy tale prince, even dressed in plaid and denim. And sometimes she wishes that there wasn't so much baggage there, that she could just see him as her father, nothing more.

"And, you know, sometimes there's a way to break the rules, particularly where there's love involved. If there wasn't, I wouldn't be standing here. Don't give up hope."

"I wish you'd realised you didn't have to be a slave to destiny thirty-something years ago." She can't keep the bitterness from her voice.

He smiles sadly, clearly recognising the meaning in her words. "So do I."


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: This chapter contains references to current Outlaw Queen. There's nothing explicit, but it's there, and if that bothers you, please feel free to stop reading. There is a plan, I promise - this is a Swan Queen story, but the road there will be decidedly rocky.

* * *

Emma's days are filled with little but dark thoughts and emptiness. Surprisingly, playing with the puppy does help a little; it takes the edge off for a few minutes. But mostly, she feels stranded. She's accustomed to _doing_ , but instead she's stuck _waiting_ , waiting for someone else to find a solution that may never come.

Her parents visit most days, and some days she even manages some polite conversation. Mostly though, she just sits in silence, listening to them talk and waiting for them to leave. Silence is necessary, because anger is never far from the surface.

The one time Snow brings Neal, she begs her to never do it again. She watches as Snow fusses with Neal's clothes, bundling him tighter against the cool air of the forest. She watches the warmth and love suffuse Snow's face as her focus hones in on him, and Emma feels like a stranger intruding on something she will never get to share. She closes her eyes, unable to watch any longer, and is overtaken by a sensation like there are thousands of ants crawling just beneath the surface of her skin. When she opens her eyes, she realises that her whole body is rippling with magic and Snow is looking at _her_ now, a hint of a frown marring her face.

Neal, her baby brother, is a beam of light illuminating all that is putrid and ugly and misshapen inside her. All the things that she tries so hard to hide. All the things that are buried. He's young and pure and innocent, and she's terrified that she will harm him. She's also terrified that in his presence, her true self will be exposed for all to see. The voices are whispering to her again and she holds her head in her hands screwing her eyes shut again. _Twisted, broken, ugly. No wonder they threw you away. Why would they love_ you _when they have him? Not enough. Never enough._ The voices go on and on and on, and there are lies there, she's sure of it, but she finds them so hard to disentangle when they're interspersed with truths that she rarely admits even to herself.

Eventually she finds a modicum of control and her magic recedes a little, back below the surface. Snow is reaching for her, concern flooding her face, but Emma shakes her head and huddles in on herself, hugging her knees tight to her chest. She speaks, and her voice is barely recognisable as her own, such is the strain of controlling her emotions and her magic and the voices whispering in her mind.

"Leave. Please. And don't bring him here again."

"Emma…"

Snow begins to respond, but Emma interrupts. "Please. It's not safe for either of you right now. Mom, please."

Snow nods, finally seeming to recognise the storm that has been gathering, and she hurries away. She doesn't return for days, and in that time the voices continue to whisper to Emma. _See. She doesn't love you. She chose him over you. And why wouldn't she?_ Emma tries to push them away, tries to rationalise Snow's absence. There are dozens of reasons why Snow might not be able to visit and Emma runs through each of them in turn. It's not quite enough to appease her doubts.

Occasionally, Regina brings Henry to see her. The first time she did, Emma had tried to send them both away, had refused to see them, but Regina had been resolute. Emma feels a certain gratitude at this generosity, this consideration that Regina herself had not been afforded not so long ago. Now that Henry is a part of her life, Emma feels his absence like a jagged, gaping wound and she can only imagine the pain that Regina must have felt when she'd been denied contact with him. The love she feels for him is the thing that is holding her in this place, but also the thing forcing her to keep her distance.

The visits are short, and Regina stands at the edge of the clearing to give them the faintest illusion of privacy. But Emma knows that watchful eyes are on them the whole time, and that Regina's hand never strays from its position on the hilt of the dagger. Henry talks to her about mundane things, about school and comic books and video games. About sword-fighting lessons with his grandfather. About anything but the ever-present cloud hanging over all of their heads. These brief visits are the closest she ever feels to normal and they sustain her.

* * *

Emma feels a familiar tug and sense of dislocation most nights. Not all, but most. Sometimes she's there for a few minutes, sometimes until the early light of dawn has Regina stirring. There have been nights when Emma has hovered over the bed, fully intending to reach down and shake Regina awake. But at the last moment, something always holds her back and she slinks back to the corner of the room to await her release.

She spends the time wondering why Regina is calling to her in her sleep. She knows the how of it, but not the why. She knows now that Regina sleeps with the dagger beneath her pillow; knows that the hand curved underneath must be grasping its hilt. She knows that it wouldn't be difficult to slide her own hand under that pillow and take the dagger for herself. But she doesn't, no matter how urgently the voices demand it of her. Instead she shoves her hands deep into her pockets and wonders if her presence in this room is a sign that there's a part of Regina's heart that calls out to her in the same way her own heart does to Regina. She wonders what she would learn if she broke her silence, if Regina would answer her in kind, say the words that Emma is so desperate to hear. But there's an ever-present sliver of doubt and she wonders if the voices feeding it are her own, or the dark voices. So she holds her tongue and accepts the scraps that these nightly visits represent.

She knows that this is an intrusion, a violation, and that she should bring an end to it. But she's weak, and this is all she gets of Regina. She has listened to the sound of Regina's breathing, until she has all but memorised its patterns. She knows how to mark the rhythm of deep sleep, of inhale and exhale, and sometimes she mirrors the patterns with her own breaths, creating a link as nebulous as air between the two of them. She also knows the strange hitch in Regina's breathing that heralds the onset of nightmares that seem to plague her most nights.

Night after night, Emma participates in this strange ritual, and Regina is always alone, until she's not. The first time Emma sees Robin there, her magic wells up sudden and violent, and it's all she can do to contain it. The tumult of her magic seems to disturb Regina, and Emma feels herself being released just in time. She tears herself away and the detonation of her power and her fury is manifested in a deep, jagged hole marring the earth as she arrives back in the clearing.

Logically, Emma had known that this was the reality of the situation, but the visual confirmation of Robin's ongoing presence in Regina's life has taken her by surprise, particularly after the string of nights where he has been absent. She had almost managed to convince herself that Regina's nightly summons were a sign that she held a place in Regina's heart that had previously been reserved for Robin. Almost. But now she knows the truth of it.

* * *

The next day, when Regina and Henry visit, Emma searches her face for any signs that she's aware of the events of the previous night. But there's nothing; no hint of accusation in her eyes, no anger, nothing. Just the usual greeting and the same watchfulness as always.

Henry is playing with the puppy, and the sight warms Emma a little. For a moment, he looks like an ordinary kid roughhousing with his pet dog, all smiles and laughter, the weight of the past few years lifted.

Regina sidles up to her, and Emma summons a smile that feels surprisingly effortless.

"Have you ever thought about getting the kid a dog?"

"He asked me a few times when he was younger, but he wasn't old enough to take care of a dog. And then, when he _was_ old enough, well, you know the rest…" Regina shrugs. And indeed, Emma does know the rest.

"Well he seems to quite like this one." Emma turns to look more directly at Regina, who is eyeing her with the sudden awareness that she's walking into an ambush. Emma ignores the pursed lips and the frown, and continues. "It'll be good for the kid."

"Emma…" Regina's voice is stern, but Emma grins, because there's already the hint of a smile evident in the upward twitch of the corners of Regina's mouth.

"And I haven't even named the poor creature. I've just been calling her _Dog_. She deserves someone who'll actually give her the love and attention she needs." And Emma knows that she has her now, because for all the steeliness of her exterior, Emma knows that Regina is a sucker for small, vulnerable things, like dogs and children.

Regina sighs. "Alright."

* * *

That night, everything goes to hell. Once again, she is summoned to Regina's bedroom, and again, Robin is there. As she works to clamp down on her rising anger, she notices that Regina is sleeping as far from Robin as possible, facing away, curled in on herself. She's struck by the possibility that perhaps things are not as smooth between them as she had believed. As she explores this idea, the magic settles, and she thinks that she has things under control for now.

It's the puppy barking that wakes Robin. And in the darkness and the confusion of night, he presumably sees a figure looming over the bed and he's out of bed in a single motion, rushing towards her. And she reacts and the next thing she knows, she's hearing the sickening crack of his body slamming against the wall.

Regina is screaming, kneeling over Robin. And Emma huddles in the corner of the room, examining the moment over and over again, looking for the place where instinct meets intent and trying to determine from which side her action was born. She can't find the answer in herself, or perhaps she doesn't want to. But she's hit with the realisation of what she's done, and she feels the contents of her stomach rising, and there's acid in her mouth. And as she comes back to herself she notices that the lights are on now. Regina is still crouched over Robin, but she's quiet and focused now, and Emma recognises the texture of Regina's magic as she tries to heal him.

"Is he…" Emma can't finish that sentence.

"He's alive. Barely." Regina's voice is a snarl, and she doesn't look at Emma. "But I don't know if I'm strong enough to heal him."

Emma looks at Robin properly now. He looks like a rag doll, thrown carelessly to the ground, his body strange and distorted. There's blood, so much blood, soaking his pajamas, and she can see bone piercing flesh.

Emma swallows against the acid that is threatening to rise into her throat again. "I don't know how to heal him. But you can draw on my power. You've done it before."

Regina grabs Emma's hand roughly, and Emma can feel the energy being torn from her. And then it's done, and Regina drops her hand, her focus consumed by Robin.

Emma flees.


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Just a note to say that this fic is completely canon-divergent post season 4 - I won't be writing any of the rest of it with spoilers or season 5 events in mind. Also, if all goes well, there should be another chapter up in the next couple of days._

* * *

All that Emma can think of is getting as far away from Storybrooke as quickly as possible. She's throwing things into a duffel bag, barely paying attention to the things she's picking up, when she feels the unmistakeable presence of Regina's magic nearby. There are footsteps behind her, and the clearing of a throat, but she doesn't turn, just continues with her task.

Eventually, she breaks the expectant silence. "Is he okay?"

"He's alive."

"I'm sorry I hurt him." She manages to convey sincerity in her tone, but she doesn't want to examine the sentiment too closely. She still has a nagging suspicion that there _had_ been intent there, that the dislike, the jealousy that she's tried so hard to suppress, had been the driving force in her actions.

"I'm not the one you need to apologise to about that."

She finally turns to face Regina and her stomach knots with guilt as she sees how worn, how hollowed out Regina looks right now.

"What were you doing in my room?" Regina's voice is surprisingly calm and Emma doesn't want to think about what that means. She expects anger, craves it really, because it's what she deserves, and the apparent absence of it is unnerving.

She doesn't answer the question, just shakes her head. She doesn't know _how_ to answer the question without opening a door that should remain closed.

"Were you trying to take the dagger back?"

"Regina..." She can't help the pleading note that enters her voice. She's not quite sure what she's begging for, whether it's forgiveness, or for Regina to walk away and not ask anything more of her.

"I would have given it back to you if you'd asked me to. You didn't have to break into my house while I was sleeping, while our son was sleeping. You didn't have to break into my house and..." She trails off, her mouth forming a hard line and her nostrils flaring. The anger that Emma had been expecting is finally here, and it's almost a relief, but there's more than that. There's a wounded edge to Regina's voice and when Emma looks more closely, there's a vulnerability in her eyes that belies the hardness in the rest of her face.

"You wouldn't have, though. I gave it to you for a reason." She holds Regina's gaze and sees the flicker of understanding in her eyes.

"You're right, I wouldn't have." Regina studies her for a moment, a frown creasing her brow, and her hands are weighing the dagger as if that will somehow reveal its secrets and Emma's in the process. She eventually seems to reach some sort of answer, and she asks, "But that isn't why you were in my room, is it?"

"Of course it is." The lie comes easily, easier than anything else has so far tonight. And it's not entirely a lie. There _had_ been nights when she'd been consumed by the urge to reach out and snatch the dagger from its hiding place, to cradle freedom in her hands. But tonight had not been one of them.

Regina shakes her head. "No. If you'd been there to take the dagger, you'd have it right now. You had plenty of opportunity. Why were you really there?"

"It's just like I said." Regina's not buying her explanation; Emma can see that straight away, but she pushes on regardless. "I wanted the dagger."

"Tell me the truth, Emma. You owe me that much. You violated my home, my privacy. You almost killed Robin. Tell me." Regina's voice starts off strident, but it's soft by the end, and it's that softness that's Emma's undoing.

"I can't," she breathes. It's agonising; she wants to, so desperately. She wants to know why Regina calls to her at night, wants to know if there's a chance. But there isn't. There can't be. Not when she's like this, when all she knows how to do is tear and rend and hurt and destroy.

Regina closes the distance between them, and when Emma takes a step backwards, she follows, until Emma's back is pressed against the wall of the trailer and Regina is almost, but not quite, touching her. "Tell me." This time there's no gentleness, no softness and it's a command, not a request, and Regina's right up in her space, and she can feel the press of Regina's fist, and the flat of the blade of the dagger against her stomach.

It's the first time Regina has consciously commanded her, and she feels anger welling up, but it's an impotent kind of rage that she has no way to express. She tries to swallow the words down, fight back against the compulsion, but the power of the dagger is too great. "You summoned me," she says, and waits for the fallout.

She can tell that that's not the response Regina is expecting, because she can hear the sharp intake of breath and see the sudden wideness in her eyes.

"What?" All the fight suddenly leaves Regina's body, and her hand drops to her side, the dagger hanging loosely in her grasp.

"You summoned me."

"I don't understand. I don't remember…" She trails off, looking at Emma in confusion.

"I don't understand it either, but somehow you did."

"And Robin? Why did you hurt him?"

"It was an accident; he rushed me and I just reacted." She half-wishes that the command was still active so she could be certain that she was telling the truth.

"And was this the first time? Have I summoned you before now?"

Released from the compulsion, the lies fall easily from her lips. "No. This was the first time."

Regina is searching her eyes and Emma works at projecting sincerity. She isn't sure that it has worked until Regina nods almost imperceptibly and takes a step back.

Regina gestures at the duffel bag. "So you're running away?"

Emma stays leaning against the wall and folds her arms. "It's better this way."

"Is it? I've never thought you were a coward, but now…" Regina shrugs.

Emma knows Regina too well, because she sees straight through that tactic and refuses to be provoked. "If I could stay, I would. Believe me." Emma shakes her head. "I was fooling myself to think that I could stay, though. It's not safe for me to be here. It never was."

"I could command you to stay." There's something in the look that Regina gives her then. Something she can't quite put her finger on.

"But you won't." She manages to summon something resembling a smile. There's nothing particularly happy or amusing about this situation, but somehow, even after this hellish night, they're still able to stand here and have a conversation.

"So what will you do? Where will you go?"

Emma shrugs. "I don't know. Anywhere but here. I've tried, but I can't control this and as long as I have this much magic, I'm not safe."

"There's got to be some other way, _something_ that can help you control it." Regina is pacing the few steps that the small confines of the trailer will allow.

Emma shakes her head. "I can't take that risk and you _know_ why." She pushes away from the wall and moves to stand next to her duffel bag. "I think it's time for me to get on the road. Can you tell Henry, tell my parents that I love them and that I'm sorry?"

"Wait until the morning and tell them yourself," Regina snaps, a hint of irritation creeping back into her voice.

There's a certain irony that after trying so hard to drive her out of Storybrooke, Regina is desperately searching for ways to make her stay. Emma closes her eyes. She wishes she could, more than anything, but she knows that seeing Henry again will test her resolve too much and she's trying so desperately to be strong for him, for Regina, for Snow and David. "Please. This isn't easy for me."

"I know." Regina's voice is gentle again. "You saved me, Emma, and I should have found a way to save you." She steps closer. "And I will find a way. I'm not giving up on you, so you don't get to either." She takes Emma's hand, knitting their fingers together, and Emma feels warmth bloom in her chest for a moment. And then it's over and they're talking through formalities and logistics and plans.

After Regina leaves, Emma throws her things into the Bug. Even after putting down roots for this long, the sum of her possessions still seems pitifully small. There _are_ things she's leaving behind, things she's gained in the time since she's been in Storybrooke. Family, friends, a home, a purpose. She gets into the car and rests her head against the steering wheel and wonders again if she's making the right choice. The voices are cajoling and wheedling. _You're strong. You can protect them, keep them safe._ For a moment she's tempted to stay. But then she remembers the smell of blood and the sound of Regina's screams and the fear in her eyes. There is no choice. She turns the ignition, puts the car into gear and swallows and swallows as she works to hold back the tears that are forming.

She's driving towards the town line, and the voices are screaming at her: _go back, turn around_. They're building and they're building until she can't bear it and her senses are overwhelmed. The road is shifting and shimmering before her eyes and for a moment she feels the most incredible sense of déjà vu. She's half-expecting a wolf to run out into the road, and she's wondering if somehow she's gone back to the beginning. She wavers for a moment and almost slams on the brakes, but she grits her teeth and accelerates instead. And then she's over the town line, and the voices are still roaring at her, calling her a fool and a coward, but they're quieter now, like the sound is being stretched over a greater distance. The slight relief is enough to let her focus on the road and she drives onwards, hands steady on the wheel, Storybrooke receding into a tiny speck in the rear-view mirror and then into nothing at all.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: I can't believe it's been almost 2 months since I posted the last chapter... thank you for being patient while I tried not to fail exams. I've finished school for the year, so updates should be much more frequent from now on.

Heads up that there's a mention of past Captain Swan in this chapter, so if you really can't bear to read that, you have been warned. It's not a very favourable mention, though.

* * *

She's softened a little over the past few years, accustomed to a roof over her head a little higher than the top of the Bug, accustomed to warm showers and comfortable beds. And going home to an apartment filled with noise and life and love had become a habit she didn't realise she'd formed, didn't realise she needed, until she'd closed that door and locked it behind her. There had been times when she'd been frustrated by the close quarters of her mother's apartment, at knowing looks, at intrusive questions over breakfast, at the overwhelming sense of expectancy that sometimes lingered in the air, but now she misses it more than anything.

Against all odds, she'd found somewhere and started to set roots and she'd drawn vitality and strength and sustenance. Uprooted again, she feels that core of strength slowly withering away. She can't help but think back to that conversation with Regina, years ago, the way she'd taunted her, smugly certain that Emma would not be able to stay still for long. Emma had half-believed it herself at the time, and there had been moments when she'd lain awake at night _wanting_ to run and fighting herself. And how true that prophecy had proven in the end, even if the mechanism of its fulfilling had been a little different than either of them had imagined.

Emma wonders if Regina is finally happy, safe and sound back in Storybrooke, with Henry all to herself and love in her life, with everything she ever wanted. That thought fills her with despair, and the voices feed it, do everything they can to stoke that fire. Although quieter outside of Storybrooke, the voices are still an ever-present mosquito hum. They urge her constantly to go back and they're wearing her thinner and thinner with each passing day.

That first phone call home when she'd spoken to Henry and heard the disappointment in his voice had almost broken her resolve. She was less than a day's drive out of Storybrooke and she'd almost turned around and headed straight back. She hadn't, though, reminding herself over and over why she'd left. She'd continued to check in for the first few days, keeping a promise she'd made to Regina, until she couldn't stand it anymore. She'd ditched her phone, certain that she'd be unable to resist the temptation to turn it on again to listen to the messages she knew would be filling her voicemail, certain that the sound of Regina's voice, of Henry's voice, would eventually be all that was needed to convince her to go back. She misses them desperately, and there have been so many times when she's stood in front of a payphone, hand on the receiver, wanting nothing more than to give in.

Yes, she's grown soft in so many ways. Despite this, she still knows how to read a city, knows how to find a safe place to park her car and sleep for a few hours. Knows how to keep herself out of trouble. She keeps moving because she's worried about what will happen when she stands still. Right now, her only purpose is to run, and if she loses that…

* * *

This picture is all that she has left of them, all that she'd allowed herself to keep. It was taken during one of those rare moments of peace in Storybrooke when no one had been cursing anybody and she and Regina had been on good terms (or as good as they ever were), and Snow and Regina had reached a tentative sort of understanding. Henry had found the old Polaroid camera in Regina's attic and that night, they'd all had dinner together and Henry had been snapping photos every chance he could. Later that evening, Regina and Henry had been sitting, ready for Snow to take the perfect family photo, and Emma, seized by an impulse born of a couple of glasses of wine too many had dashed into the frame at the last moment. Henry had cracked up and blinked as the camera went off and Regina had half-turned, a frown forming at her brows, reaching out to grab Emma's arm.

 _You could have just asked,_ Regina had said.

There had been no real sting in the words, but Emma had ducked out of the attempt to take another picture, a rueful smile on her face and Regina had searched her eyes for a moment before shrugging. Emma had quietly pocketed the picture and carried it with her ever since. It was emblematic of her presence in their life, the party crasher, the interloper. She's studied the picture dozens of times since, and over time she's come to notice smaller details that hadn't immediately registered, like the softness in Regina's eyes, despite the frown, and the way that Henry's leaning towards her. And she remembers the gentle pressure of Regina's hand on her arm and the way it had lingered until she had pulled away.

When she looks at the picture, sometimes it hurts almost more than she can stand as she sees the possibilities that could never come to be. And sometimes it warms her, because it reminds her that these are things that she'd never thought she'd have – family, friends, maybe something more – and somehow, despite everything, she'd stumbled upon them.

That picture is now in the hands of a thief who'd pulled a simple bump and lift, a move Emma herself had used more than once. A move she'd registered a moment too late to stop him from lifting her wallet, but not too late to chase him down until she corners him in an alley.

He's surprised when she closes the distance. There's an initial cockiness in his stance and his expression, but it's soon replaced with something else as she drives her fist into his nose. She smiles a little at the satisfying crunch as it breaks and the sudden fear creeping into his eyes. Then she's raining blows down on him, hard, merciless, and it's the closest thing to pleasure that she's experienced in months. And in her head, that relentless, grating buzz has settled into a deep melodious hum, and there's just one word emerging from the stream, chanted over and over. _Good._ And she punches and punches and punches, each contact taking her higher and higher, further from herself.

It's the crack and pop of the pickpocket's voice – so much like Henry's in the last few months – that finally breaks the spell. He begs her to stop. Suddenly, she notices details she hadn't before, like the pants that are too short for painfully thin legs that have recently grown long, and sneakers with soles that are almost worn through. And if she could see his face, she suspects that he wouldn't be much older than Henry. But she can't; his face is a pulpy mess and then all she can see is Henry's face superimposed on this blank, bloody canvas.

She releases the shirt she has bunched in her fist and he falls to the ground. He's alive, she thinks, but she can't bear to look at him, can't bear to add up the damage she's inflicted. She picks up the wallet that has fallen to the ground and staggers away, drunk on violence and sickening pleasure and regret. For a moment she thinks she's going to throw up, feels her stomach heaving and roiling and hears the sound of blood rushing in her ears, but that moment passes. She flees the alley with no thought of where she should go, no plans at all.

Now she's sitting in a bar, the kind where no one asks questions when you stumble in with bloody knuckles and murder in your eyes, and she's downing whisky like it's water. The voices are still singing to her and it's this approbation, this gentle, melodious hum that terrifies her more than the shrieking exhortations to violence. She's slipped, and they're waiting to embrace her. She's always found a certain pleasure in violence, had always felt an odd kind of joy when a target had tried to stand and fight back in her bounty hunting days. And as she remembers this, she's sickened at the dreadful realisation that maybe the darkness has nothing to do with her actions, that it's simply reaching out to a kindred spirit.

Her head is filled with thoughts of Henry and Regina and Snow and David, of how disgusted they would be to see her now. She smooths her fingers across the photo, tracing the outline of Regina and Henry's faces. She thinks of Regina and the strength it took to pull herself out of darkness and how she has fallen at the first hurdle. She thinks of Henry and the hope, the belief he'd always had in her and how she has betrayed all of that. Of her parents, and how they'd always believed she could save the world, and now she knows nothing but how to destroy. So she drinks and she drinks and she drinks until she can push them away.

Her mind drifts to Killian, and for a moment she wishes he was here so she could lose herself in him, use him once again. His body had been her forgetting potion, a temporary amnesia wiping away the fear and the disappointment. Wiping away the thoughts of Regina, of Robin and the happiness he was destined to bring her and the desperate, tearing pain she felt every time she saw them together. Wiping away the expectations that she always feared she'd fail to meet. Wiping away the thoughts that one day her parents would remember why they left her and leave her again. But _he_ couldn't let her down, because she expected nothing from him. He was safe.

She understands Killian better than ever now, his need to anchor himself to her. Because without Henry, without Regina, without her parents, she feels adrift, lost at sea. This isn't like before, when she'd had no one but herself to rely on, when she'd made her way through life barely touching and never feeling. And she thinks back to those early days with Killian and how she'd chafed at the way he chained the fate of his soul and his happiness to her, made her feel responsible for him. There had been times when she'd resented him for that, hated him a little. That while she had wanted nothing more from him than an escape from the crushing burden of responsibilities she'd never asked for and emotions she wasn't ready for, he had wanted her to fight his demons for him.

She's been running for two months, and right now, even though she feels like she's drowning, with no one to save her and no land in sight, she thinks she's made the right choice. Because at least this way she won't drag her loved ones down with her.


End file.
